


The Five Stages of Loving You

by West_Coast_Moper



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Based off of the 5 stages of grief, Blow Jobs, But not quite, Canon in some forms, Crushes, Fights, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, Joe means well, Love Confessions, M/M, Patrick's seventeen years old, Patrick-centric, Pete's oblivious, Pete's twenty-two, Possessive Behavior, Pre-famous, Requited Love, Sloppy Makeouts, Underage Drinking, smoking pot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 15:25:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9613931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/West_Coast_Moper/pseuds/West_Coast_Moper
Summary: Patrick’s seventeen with a baseball cap wrapped snug around his head, baggy clothing that practically drowned him, and a pair of sweaty palms. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s nervous or in any way, shape, or form insecure.However, he’s got a thought niggling in the back of his mind. A worm that just won’t leave him alone.Pete.Pete’s the thought. Pete’s the worm.





	

**Author's Note:**

> //Has been somewhat edited//  
> I'm a bit rusty.  
> That's entirely my fault.  
> I suck, like a lot.
> 
>  
> 
> ;> Enjoy the fic - pls

**1\. Denial**

 

Patrick’s seventeen with a baseball cap wrapped snug around his head, baggy clothing that practically drowned him, and a pair of sweaty palms. That doesn’t necessarily mean he’s nervous or in any way, shape, or form insecure.

However, he’s got a thought niggling in the back of his mind. A worm that just won’t leave him alone.

Pete.

Pete’s the thought. Pete’s the worm.

The guy who stood on his porch, looked him over, and then immediately began to ridicule his fashion sense. It’s not like Patrick’s saying he’s the cover of a fashion magazine, but didn’t his mama ever tell him not to gawk and point?

Patrick’s skin almost felt itchy at the sudden mention of the bassist. He isn’t sure when it happened. When his chest began to constrict at the sight of a partly dyed fringe and the too tight jeans. He doesn’t know when his stomach began to get fluttery from the thought of too many teeth and crinkly eyes.

God…he starting to sound like a preteen with a celebrity obsession.

He was anything but. Seventeen with an instrument and somewhat of a band…crushes aren’t necessary. It’s not like he can’t get laid – wait, whoa, whoa, whoa, who ever said anything about a crush? Patrick’s eyes widened at the thought until he shook his head and backtracked.

Clearly, he just had to get laid.

That’s it 

Maybe even a not-so-clean solution done out with his hand. It’s not like he’s picky.

Beggars can’t be choosers

The simple thought of popping open the button to his jeans and solving the job right then and there was truly tempting…until he heard the somewhat squeaky honking of a shitty car that flushed his brilliant idea right down the drain. He knew who was in said car – could hear the asshole hollering for him to get his fine ass out there.

Patrick’s hairline was starting to get sticky and he began gritting his teeth on the slight edge of painful, but not enough to fully distract him. His knees were jiggling and – wow, is it getting hard to breathe? No, this was ridiculous.

No way in hell would Patrick ever see Pete as anything other than his fool of a bassist…and friend…whatever.

A friend.

Of course Pete’s a friend.

 

_____________________________

 

Trudging down the front porch is truly a nightmare. Pete’s got his head out of the window with a wide grin on face, eyes bright, like he’s seen god for the first time. Patrick nearly punches him from the miraculous stab at his chest, however, he’s got control. It might have an odd function of wobbling from time to time, but he’s got some damn good control.

“What’s shakin’ Pattycakes,” is the first thing Patrick heard as he slid into the passenger’s seat. Pete’s got his brows waggling and he wants to die. Sometimes he felt as if his face was going to fall off from just how heavy his frown has become.

“Don’t call me that,” Patrick muttered with flushed cheeks and then he purposely slammed the car door shut with a loud thud. The corners of his mouth flicked up in mischief when he heard Pete fussing over his car as if it was his newborn child.

“Baby are you okay? One day I’ll teach Patrick how to treat ya right.” Patrick couldn’t care less about Pete’s shitty car. Scrapes and deflated tires, hell, it’s even got flames running down the sides. He nearly cried at the sight. He was beyond doubt petrified from horror.

“Babe,” Patrick said with a sharp edge to it. Pete’s eyes flicked from the dusty dashboard to Patrick in split second. Eyes filled with a glint that sent shivers down his spine and filled his groin with a heavy heat he forced himself to ignore.

“We all know I’m never gonna treat ya lil’ lady right.” Pete rolled his eyes and gave an exaggerated scoff, but Patrick failed to miss the affectionate grin manifesting on his bassist’s face as he started the ignition.

Patrick’s only got one thought in his head as Pete backs the car up and out of his driveway.

“Your car sounds like a fucking lawnmower.”

 

_____________________________

 

 

Patrick’s stood there, a red plastic cup in his hand, sloshing liquid, and he felt drained. He lost Pete in the midst of the panic twenty minutes ago. It’s whatever – he’s not bothered. His toes are dug deep into the insides of his shoes as he makes small chat with a girl. She’s blonde, a tiny smile, a soft body, blue eyes that were perfectly smooth when she grinned, and fair skin.

He knew he wasn’t interested, could tell from the constant shifting of his gaze, lack of lust in his veins.

Man, he wasn’t even sure this girl was into him. That is, until he felt a pointed nail slide down his chest and he held himself back from choking on his own saliva. The girl gave him a thin smile, head dipped back with darkened eyes.

He’s got to get laid…right? It would solve his problem – should solve his problem…but he’s not feeling it and to be honest, he’d rather not feel the shame crawling up his throat when he can’t even manage to get it up at his age. So he gave the girl a nod and backed off, spouting nonsense about how he had to find his pal and what not.

She gave him a frown, but whatever was about to slide off her tongue was lost in the music as Patrick spun around and crawled his way up the stairs. It didn’t exactly take him very long to spot a size extra small hoodie and the sound of a loud braying laugh.

Patrick’s not what you’d call relieved when he finds Pete.

Not in the slightest could you ever define him as an ounce bit okay in that moment.

Pete.

Pete’s got a hand up some redhead’s shirt. With his mouth pressed against her neck, red and raw. Unfortunately, Patrick just had to notice his other hand tucked between her thighs. She’s moaning, loud and high, her hair fucked to hell, and her knees trembling. 

Maybe Patrick’s being dramatic and maybe he’s not, but right then and there…it was almost as if he’d been shot. Rage bursting in his chest and holding tightly – just as tight as the girl’s hands clamoring onto Pete’s shoulders. Jealousy flourishing within him that ends up making his mouth dry and his throat achy.

His eyes burned, his head hurt, and he took a deep inhale of crisp air before whirling around. His legs flew down the stairs at the speed of light, two steps at a time, ignoring the ever-growing pain within him.

Patrick’s sense of denial had been shattered with a hammer.

He has a crush on his bassist and he wasn't happy about it.

Wasn't happy at all.

 

 **2.** **Anger**

 

Patrick walked home that night. Cold air swiping across his face as he dragged himself along the sidewalk. His teeth were dug so deep within the meat of his tongue, he could essentially taste blood. His phone was slotted inside his back pocket buzzing like a damn fly. He didn’t care. Why should he?

He wasn’t blaming Pete.

Not necessarily, anyway. It wasn’t his fault. It was Patrick’s.

Patrick’s not saying he isn’t pissed though.

He had definitely crossed the line labeled pissed. He was seeing red at this point. His nails were cutting far into the fresh flesh of his hands, his face was scrunched up in agony, and his feet were sore.

This was hell.

He decided by the time he was heaving himself up the front porch is that he should’ve fucking got laid. Sure, it would’ve only helped temporarily…but it would’ve at the very least  _helped_.

He slumped into his bed with a broken sigh. His throat was killing him and his head was a whirl of emotions combined into something hefty.

Anger.

His eyelids closed and he clenched his jaw. Memories were swirling in his head. A mouth. Red and wet, wrapped around that pretty little girl’s neck. Fingers dug raw into winged shoulder blades. Harsh breath, hot and moist.

Patrick hated himself for it. Hated himself for the quiver in his stomach, heat in his nether regions, and rage in his chest. He knew it was stupid, knew he shouldn’t, but the look in Pete’s big brown eyes has got him cracked and awry.

He’s got a hand down the front of his jeans before he could even tell himself no. He knew the moment his fingers curled around his dick, half hard and painful.

He was screwed.

His orgasm hit him in seconds, eyes screwed up, and his legs twitching. He didn’t moan, didn’t groan, only breathed his last breath before letting a dreamless sleep consume him.

 

_____________________________

 

It was three in the morning when Patrick woke up. Loud clunks and thuds coming from the glass of his window. Out of sorts, he didn’t think much of it. Got out of bed and walked over to his window with a furrowed brow.

Pete.

Of course, it’s Pete. Pete with a concerned face, ridden and pissed pressed all into one expression. Patrick slid open his window, didn’t feel like saying sorry. He took it like a man. All of Pete’s ranting and ramblings.

“Dude, what the hell? You just disappeared – I looked everywhere. I thought you got kidnapped or some shit,” It went on and on and on. Pete's features distorted into a scowl, eyes crinkled and frown set deep into his face as he yelled angrily all wrapped up inside a whisper. It didn’t hit him until a few brief seconds later. His jeans felt sticky, dry, and clumpy. Shame wrapped around him like a straightjacket.

He felt dirty.

Gross.

“Pete, look, I was tired and,” he attempted at a half-assed excuse, he knew it was a pathetic shot. He didn’t give a shit. Pete’s eyes widened, his lips bitten raw.

Red.

Sweet.

Patrick could barely handle this.

“Tired? Why didn’t you ask me to drive you home? Seriously, what the hell?” Pete’s chest is heaving. He’s angry. Patrick knew it. Could almost detect a warm and fuzzy feeling curling into a ball and nuzzling his insides at the thought of Pete being concerned about him. Almost.

“You looked busy,” it came out harsh and snappy. Fuck. He shouldn’t have said that. he didn’t even mean to.

Pete looked at him confused for a brief moment, expression bemused, and his nose wrinkled. Patrick nearly swooned. Understanding crossed over Pete’s face in a flash and the teen swallowed hard and painful.

“Patrick – “

No, Patrick didn’t want to do this. He refused to do this. His hand was playing a mantra of "Too much - Too much - Too much." He pushed down the growl manifesting and rumbling in his chest before he shook his head bitterly.

“I’m fine Pete – I’m not a little kid.” The words sounded childish the minute they fell from his tongue, young and breathy. Whether he seemed it or not, he isn't, he didn’t want Pete to think of him as such. If Pete found out - if he knew, the last thing Patrick needed was Pete seeing him as a child.

Pete’s eyes narrowed for a split second until he breathed in deeply. “Message me – hell, check your damn phone next time,” he mumbled, with his arms gradually lifting and ultimately ending up wrapped tightly around Patrick. His arms snapped like a bear trap and Patrick could feel himself bleeding. Patrick hated how nice it felt. How comfortable Pete's chest was. The scent of him was somewhat like home and he could practically feel himself melt, but he didn’t hug back.

He didn't move away either.

“You know I love ya man.” Pete said it with such sincerity, hands clenched around Patrick comfortably and sweet, like, he was never letting go. Pete's skin warm and solid against him. The bassist's flesh was similar to a furnace, every touch scorching Patrick. The teen's body was sizzling and blistering. It was all in his imagination, nevertheless, Patrick's eyes still burned and his heart still ached.

Patrick was angry again.

He just didn’t show it this time

"...Yeah, of course."

_____________________________

 

Joe’s got Patrick by the hood, dragging him into his bedroom. The fetor of hot Cheetos and pot infiltrated Patrick's senses within seconds and his face contorted with displeasure. Joe was a bit funky, despite that, he was good people. A good people reader on the side of that. Knew when people needed something to numb the pain.

Patrick didn’t bother telling Joe what the problem was. He didn’t ask. Besides, he’d rather Joe not accidentally mention his inappropriate infatuation to said bassist whilst under the influence. Be that weed or beer, it didn’t matter. He could only imagine just how horrified Pete's expression would be - a kid with a stupid crush. He's probably seen that a dozen times. Patrick's just one of the few hundred to gain an infliction.

“Dude your frown makes me frown.”

Patrick snorted, dry and pathetic. His smile felt like makeup, several layers atop of his tear stained cheeks. It’s peeling. He’s peeling.

Joe got a raised brow directed straight at him, the boy with the wild curls and the ripped ratty jeans gave him a once over. “Your mom didn’t mention you died – seriously when was the last time you slept?”

Two days ago.

Patrick's aware he looked like shit. He's got black holes for eyes and an odor coating his body that he can't even describe. It’s stupid, but Patrick Isn’t exactly dealing well with the fact that he’s got a thing for one of his bandmates – his friend.

His best friend.

“I’m fine.” Fake. It sounded so forced, Patrick wanted to chuckle, so he does. A pierce of boisterous sarcasm wrapped up within laughter. It was the same ole' script he's written in his head for moments like this. Tell them you're fine, add a smile, throw a laugh, and sprinkle a tiny bit of a joke. You're okay. Let them know you're okay. You should be okay.

Why aren't you okay?

“Maybe you just need to relax.” Joe’s got a pack of beer and a grin for days. Patrick can’t say no. He's not quite sure why he'd even think of declining a good swish of beer right now. He doesn't drink a lot, only when he feels up to it or he's got a bud offering. Tonight felt like the night to let loose morals and dive straight in. 

“Yeah…maybe you’re right," he decided with his teeth clenched tightly together. There's always a chance he'll spill secrets. Whisper little truths to Joe in the midst of the night like a preteen at a sleepover. A chance he'd scoop his phone up and out of his snug pocket and text Pete. He'd end up texting Pete, tell him how pretty he thought his eyes were, how soft his hair must be, and how he'd like to see how red he could get Pete's mouth before he was begging for mercy.

He'll risk it.

 

 **3.** **Bargaining**

 

Patrick’s propped up against the headboard, his sight fuzzy, his grin loose, and his toes are wiggling. Joe’s on his back, lanky limbs laid and spread out all over the brown carpet with a blunt in the grasp of his fingertips. He had asked Patrick if he wanted a pass, but the teen’s got enough sense to say no when he needs to.

He’s never been much of a smoker.

“Naw, m’good,” he had slurred, eyes closed, and stomach warm. His breath is even and it almost felt as if calloused fingers were sliding over the front of his chest. His eyelids flick open to the sight of tan skin and big brown eyes and Patrick almost smiles. Crinkled skin and several teeth staring back at him. His fingers rose to touch, however, he thought against it. "Mmhn, 'ete?" Patrick's voice was low and bemused as he squinted, attempting to deblur his vision, but to no avail. A gentle thrumming filled the room, soft hums, and feather-like touches running over his form. He swore this was heaven.

"Why are you so sad?" The question stung, hard in Patrick's chest, and he breathed in hard. His throat was dry and sore as if he'd gone through a week of snotty tissues and mild headaches. 

"Mm... sad? M'not sad." It's not exactly a lie, in fact, Pete's presence seemed to light up his entire view. Whether his vision was wonky or fuzzy, it didn't matter. Pete's eyelids gently closed and Patrick appreciated the sight before he felt a thumb caressing his bottom lip. Pete replied quite simply with "You shouldn't lie...it's not nice." A softness touched his lips before Patrick realized he was being kissed. It was so light - dream-like, and that's when it hit him.

He was dreaming.

The kiss ended as quick as it started and Patrick's stomach is burning with a bittersweet feeling wrapped around his intestines and slowly climbing up his throat. He wanted this, wanted Pete - didn't care if he wasn't real. He wanted it. He'd trade his soul for another taste of paradise. It's dramatic, but he's allowed to be. He always said if you're gonna do something; go big or go home. So when he fell in love, he decided he'd better hit the floor. He had hit the ground, hard and heavy. He's got a collection of bruised knuckles and scraped knees to prove it.

Patrick's mouth opened halfway, beginning to ask whether he could trade his favorite guitar or maybe one of his limbs for just another peck when his stomach gave a vicious tug. The next thing he knew, Pete's gone and he's on his chest with the mess of his dinner greeting his tongue once again. His nose wrinkled and his face grimaced from the foul stench of up-chuck and a pounding migraine. 

In this moment he thought to himself. This should be the moment when he thinks he'll never drink again - this is the last time, but he'd do it. He'd do it again just get another glance at the blurry Pete of his fantasy. Although it's not real, it's close. Close is good. He can live with close.

He could try.

 

 **4.** **Depression**                                                                                                           

 

Joe chewed him out for the splash of vomit on his pretty little pot scented rug. Patrick knew he didn't give much of a shit, still, he apologized either way. He's a man who can hold his alcohol, he always said, however, he's in a funk. Joe eyed him warily at the apology, said he was acting strange and that he was beginning to wonder if Patrick's been replaced with a depressed cloned version of himself. 

Patrick eyed him for a long moment, made Joe shift uncomfortably beneath his gaze before he muttered "Would a clone know about the Katelyn incident." Patrick's rewarded with a hard glare and pouty lips as he snorted obnoxiously within the school hallway. Joe's got arms crossed around his chest and a resting bitch-face and Patrick knew he's done him right. "That's so uncool, like, I can't even believe you right now."

"She still talks about you," Patrick commented, a ghost of smirk residing on his lips, lips full of pure smugness. Joe's lookin' irritated and Patrick's chuckling beneath his breath within his locker as his fingers meet his pre-calculus textbook. "Seriously, you came in like two minut - " Joe cut him off with a harsh breath and his left hand roughly raked through his hair before he said "I'm gonna kick your ass -wait, it was so not two minutes...holy shit." Joe's voice was a shouting whisper at the end of his sentence and Patrick was losing his composure.

The bell rung, signalling all the teens to go on their merry way like the zombies they were. Joe seemed to be having a mental battle within himself until Patrick heard "Enough about me. What's been your issue? You've been a corpse for like a week." Patrick felt his palms calm and he swallowed saliva before his eyes flicked downward to the book in his arms and he responded "I've been doing shit in pre-calc and my mom has been heavy on my ass about it." It came out with such crystal clarity that Patrick felt like mentally patting himself on the back. Joe nodded his head with pursed lips, not quite believing, but not denying it either. 

"Yeah, pre is a bitch." Patrick sighed lowly in reply, the lid of his hat pushed down and shielding his eyes. "You've got no idea, Joe," he thought to himself as they shuffled to their prison.

 

_____________________________

 

Patrick has been ignoring Pete.

It's not that simple. He was busy, he's got homework, other friends, and a whole lot of television series to get caught up on. Pete clearly didn't think these reasons were applicable as Patrick was still receiving hundreds of messages on the daily. Messages making sure he's been fed, watered, and cleaned. He wanted to say he's not a fucking rabbit. He doesn't need to be checked on constantly. He was managing just fine...however, he's got band practice...he has to see Pete. He knew he couldn't avoid him. It's only been a few weeks since he was hit with the revelation of how Pete's got a nice ass and Patrick's not allowed to touch.

He was sweating before he even made it down the steps. Pete's there, his hands on his bass, fingering the strings, and Patrick's stomach already felt queasy. He thought he might just vomit up his pizza slice until he felt a firm palm plant itself on his shoulder. Andy's there, sending a grin his way. Patrick felt himself be mollified by the sweet innocence of his bandmates. 

They had no clue. They were so unaware to Patrick's thoughts. In a way that was calming - nobody knew, which meant Patrick could pretend it didn't exist. He could pretend. His eyes wavered over the scene of his basement, he picked up his guitar, strummed with his fingertips, until he felt his demise. The jowls of his jaw twitched as he glanced up and met the beaming grin of Pete. Teeth. Teeth. So many teeth. Patrick's eyes squint in response, like, Pete's smile is too bright for words. His stomach immediately knotted and he nearly wheezed.

"Pattycakes," Pete sing-songed, shoulders wiggling before his smile turned to a pout.  "You've been avoiding me. That's not cool." Panic erupted inside Patrick's chest, his mentality eternally screaming, until he realized...Pete was just joking. An arm slid around his shoulders and he felt a smack of Pete's lips against his cheek, wet and sloppy. He brought his hand up to wipe at his cheek with a gruff groan of disapproval.

"You're fucking disgusting," he told Pete, unable to rid the quiver of his lips, ultimately turning into a smile. Pete puffed his lips up in reply, making kissy faces that he knew were deemed as gross. Although Pete considered it to be ugly, Patrick thought it endearing. His eyes narrowed and his nails trailed up the tan arm wrapped around him. He heard Pete's breath catch and then the grip was gone. Pete cleared his throat, his cheeks crimson, and Patrick noticed. 

"Cheeks almost as red as your lips," played in his head like a broken record, his gaze is piercing like a knife. He licked his lips, dug his front teeth into his bottom one, and stood up. Pete appeared somewhat shocked, his eyes as wide as saucers, glassy, and dazed. He walked past Pete with a snort, bumping his guitar into the bassist's thigh. "You're acting funny," he tittered, despite his odd mannerisms these past few weeks. Although he might've crossed the line by touching Pete like that, it was completely innocent. At least it appeared to be innocent to people oblivious of Patrick's ulterior motives.

"What d'ya mean? I'm awesome," Pete retorted, voice somewhat shaky. Patrick began to feel somewhat bad when Pete cleared his throat. Guilt tugging at his heartstrings, he didn't want to freak Pete out with his immature little boy crush, so he snorted again. "You're never awesome," he said with a feigned sneer, his hand resting on hip. Pete eyed him silently for a brief moment, a smile playing at his lips before he nudged his shoe against Patrick's sock clothed foot. 

"You better turn down the Patitude before I make you," Pete joked, a spark in his eyes that made Patrick curl his toes into the floor beneath him. 

He fell in love just a little bit more that day.

Only a little.

 

_____________________________

 

 

Patrick was doing well. The pain had fallen into a dull throb within his chest every time he thought of Pete. He was doing well. But...he'd made a grave mistake. They had a gig...at least that's what Pete called it. A house party, small, loud, and stuffy. It wasn't much of a set, however, Pete didn't need a stage to make it his. It was more like a corner, Patrick's back turned away from the crowd as he bellowed out lyrics of sex, regret, memories, and grief. Pete with his bass, sort of like a ragdoll while flinging himself around as much as he could within such a tight space. Patrick feared the day he'd break his neck pulling these ridiculous moves. He wouldn't be the one to break the news to Pete's precious mother.

Patrick's in mid-song when he became aware of Pete's facial expression. His eyes dark and slanted with his view pointed across the room. Hesitant, Patrick crooked his neck sideways in order to view just who that gaze was for. A girl, who appeared to be his height, strawberry blonde hair, with pink and full lips. Patrick could feel his lip pulling back into a snarl as he sang, although his voice becoming more and more angry, it was also powerful. His skin was on fire and his hand was beginning to cramp around his mic as his knuckles tightened.

Eyes gleaming with recklessness, he tugged the mic out from the stand, and slithered up to a bouncing Pete upon the rugged carpet. Before common sense could alert him that yes, this was indeed a terrible idea, his arm was wrapped around Pete's waist, fingers curled around his hip as Patrick belted out the next few lyrics. His eyes met Pete's shocked ones as he sang "I don't blame you for being you," his eyes narrowed into black slits as he said the next line. "But you can't blame me for hating it."

Patrick's nails dug sharp into the meat of Pete's hipbone, he let go when he heard a sharp hiss, but not before leaning forward and sliding his tongue up the hollow of Pete's neck. It didn't really hit him until he was already eight feet away. He just  _licked_ Pete. He didn't lick Pete. He didn't lick people in general. That was Pete's thing - it's always been his area of expertise, his little way of pissing people off, and Patrick just did it in front of a whole crowd of college kids with punishing stares and intrigued glances. 

Patrick at least had the decency to feel embarrassed, but not humiliated. He didn't feel shame, however, he is upset that he let his jealousy get the best of him. The green monster within him wanted to sink it's claws within Pete and never let go. Pete was  _his_ \- no, no he wasn't. He'll never be Patrick's That's not how it works. That's not how life works.

Life doesn't give happy endings. Life sucks and then you die. 

Patrick could feel Pete's eyes on his back, glaring holes into the back of his denim jacket. He tugged his hat over his eyes, but not before observing the crestfallen face of the pretty strawberry blonde in the back of the group. Satisfaction blossomed in his stomach all the way up to his chest, but ultimately snuggled against his ribcage and made him feel hot inside. He felt bad, but that didn't cease the smirk from twisting across his face.

Patrick knew Joe was eyeing him as if he were a psychopath and Andy's too immersed in his drumming to give a shit.

This was the beginning of the end.

He fucked up

 

 **5.** **Acceptance**

 

Patrick's sneakers are already skittering across the rocky cement of the street once the gig is over and done with. He grabbed his shit and bolted, a guitar in his hand, and what's left of his dignity in the other. He could hear hurried steps behind him, rapid and fleeting. Panting is loud and thick in the air and Patrick's eardrums are sore and tender. He increased his pace, touching the speed of jogging until he heard his name being called. He paused, thought for a moment, considered running, his legs trembling and ready to take off, but he didn't.

He spun around.

Pete. Pete's there, a couple of feet away from him actually. Patrick's breath is hard and heavy, not from exertion, but from stress and fear. Pete's mouth opened, shut, and then opened again. 

"Why - " Pete's eyes are big, beautiful, and bemused. His expression is unintelligible; Patrick can't make out whether he's upset or pissed. The only thing he can gain from observance is confusion. His face, so open and vulnerable, sort of like a small puppy who's been punished too late. Patrick can't stop himself.

"I'm sorry," Patrick cut him off, his face crumpling in on itself. His heart was already cracking before Pete could stomp on it himself. "I'm so fucking sorry." He sounded so pathetic, his voice raspy and croaking as he held back tears. "Fuck's sake," he growled into a ragged breath as he whirled around. This is when humiliation clamped onto his heart and tore it to pieces. He inhaled deeply before he husked out "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Patrick..." Patrick, himself, flinched at the tone. The same one his mother gave him when he accidentally gave himself a paper cut as a child or placed his hand on a hot stove. It's pity, horrific sympathy bottled up into a nurturing voice that Patrick despised. 

"No - don't you fucking give me that bullshit," his head snapped to Pete in an instant, eyes fiery and blazing. Anger lacing his words as they bubbled up and out of his throat in an instant. "I'm not a fucking baby, alright! Don't you dare treat me like one." If Pete's gonna break him, he can damn well do it with a firm voice. Patrick's been torn apart before. He can sew himself back together. He's got the thread and the needle stashed away, waiting and ready.

Pete's shoulders tensed and he glared for a couple of brief seconds until his gaze dropped to the street. "Explain to me - specifically Patrick. What the hell is going on?"

Patrick knew his lips were pursed and his fists were shaking as the rest his body was. "What the hell do you think? You with your fucking eyes - your stupid face - god fucking damn it," he squawked, kicking the air. "You don't even get it - you don't understand. Oh my fucking god." Hands clenched around his shoulders and his face immediately whipped back to Pete's, his mouth open and ready to shout before his breath left him. Pete's gaze held an intensity that shot right down Patrick's spine and sent tingles throughout his skin. His nerves were set aflame, like a warning. 

A warning he ignored.

"Patrick," Pete said, voice tight and his hands rigid. Patrick's eyelids fluttered closed and the muscles in his jaw flexed before he opened his eyes and stared deep and open at the bassist. "I love you," it came out as a weak whisper, his eyes wet and watery as his entire body shivered. "So much, and you have no idea. You're always on my mind - always," he felt embarrassed finally admitting it out loud.  Out in the open where anyone could hear it, however, the only person Patrick truly cared about that heard it was Pete. 

Pete's eyes are on him, filled with desire, but his expression is pained. "Y-you - I can't Patrick. I won't fuck you up - I won't be the one to do that to you." Patrick is slammed with awareness, his eyes become large and his expression is somewhat fish-like until he's seething. If looks could kill, Pete would be in a coffin right now and Patrick would be burying him. He ended up punching Pete, right in the chest, right where it's been killing  him for months. It's not too violent, not hard enough to break anything, but enough for a bruise and a yelp out of the bassist. 

"What the fuck Patrick?!" Pete groaned, rubbing the abused area. Patrick doesn't give his chest a second glance before he's clenching his fingers into the fabric of Pete's band tee and tugging him forward. Patrick's lips pressed to Pete's, colliding, and teeth clanging, but to the teen it was perfect.

As much as he hated giving into stereotypes, the spark is there, electrific and mind-throttling. Pete's still for the longest time, practically eternity, and Patrick was about to pull away, but then Pete's mouth pushed forward.

Hot and wet are the only two words that fill the younger's mind. Patrick, deciding to be somewhat risky, took a swipe at Pete's bottom lip with his tongue before he licked deeper. Pete's tongue enfolded against his own and Patrick groaned. It came out somewhat muffled, however, he felt Pete's fingers tangle into the hoops of his jeans and yank him closer.

The teen could barely even remember his own name as Pete filled his senses. Pete. Pete. Pete. His ears filled with breathy gasps and groans. Pete on his tastebuds. Pete on his fingers, his hands, and his skin. His tongue is still glossing over Pete's mouth, running over his gums, his teeth, and it should be disgusting, but all Patrick can think about is how long he's wanted this close and tight proximity. How long he's wanted Pete in his hands, moaning, and writhing.

Patrick prodded his core in reply to bassist's nibbling of his bottom lip and that's when their hips meet. The whine that trickled from Pete's throat made Patrick keen in response. He's got his fingers bent around the expanse of Pete's waist. His throat was burning and he desperately needed to pull back to breathe, but what if Pete didn't let him do this again. What if it was over?

With a pitiful wheeze, Patrick pulled back, his nose still nudged against Pete's, making him give a feeble chuckle. "Do you actually think," he began huskily and beneath his breath. "That I'd let you fuck me up? You can push me down all you like, but I'm still gonna get back up and call you a fucking bag of dicks." Pete's laugh was loud and braying. Patrick fell in love even more so. He had a lot of love to give, it seemed. "I hate you. I really do," he told Pete, beaming. He felt his cheeks aching. He didn't care. "We should, like, make out again."

Pete rolled his eyes, called him a dumbass, despite those little details, he still didn't stop Patrick from licking into his mouth once again.

 

**Epilogue**

 

Patrick's got Pete on his knees, pretty little mouth wrapped nice and sloppy around his dick after clawing hard at his chest. His voice desperate, needy, and pleasant all combined together into a perfect whine. "Let me suck you - want to. C'mon - please," he moaned high and breathy into the teen's neck, engrossed in sweat, hands already inside his boxers and circled firmly around his equipment.

"Do it," he had groaned, low and deep. "I want it." Pete's finesse was lacking, but his enthusiasm made up for it. Pete's tongue pressed flat against the head of his cock and Patrick's eyes clenched shut. he felt his knees tremble as he forced himself to stay upward. Pete's hand traced the inside of his thigh, slowly sliding up to caress his balls. Patrick gave a wet gasp, eyes opening as his hands fell down to knot themselves within Pete's black strands. "You fucker - oh my god." Pete's fingers squeezed around him and Patrick let out a growl.

Patrick eyes paid close attention to Pete's other hand, slowing trailing down to the front of his jeans. He heard a whist zip and then Pete was moaning around him. His nails dug into Pete's scalp in response, setting off another cry. Patrick was gonna come - he knew it. His chest was nearly heaving, his breath rapid and hissing. "I'm 'ete m'gonna - fuck, gonna come." He tried to tug Pete off of him, jerked his hair and everything, but Pete's tongue quickened and so did the hand on his own dick, causing Patrick's eyes to fall shut once again. He came hard with a hoarse grunt when Pete sobbed around him, voicing his own climax.

It's a few minutes later when Patrick finally decided to voice his own thoughts, back pressed against the door to Pete's bedroom. "Dude did you swallow - that's so fucking gross. Holy shit." Pete's on his back, grinning up at him. "Fuck you," he retorted, but it sounded more like an "I love you."

They're both gross, dried cum on their thighs, and desperately in need of a shower. Somehow they both end up within Pete's bed, wrapped up like a burrito inside his comforter. Patrick's nose is on Pete's shoulder and Pete's fingers are waving through his hair. 

"That better not be the hand you came on." Pete snorted, laughter leaking from his mouth as his hand stayed within the disheveled tufts of Patrick's hair. "You don't fucking care anyway." Patrick really didn't. He wrapped an arm around Pete's waist, closed his eyes and breathed. Pete loved him and Pete has always had a hard time with saying no to Patrick. 

Patrick may be evil for using that against him, but...they're gonna be okay.

They'll always be okay.

Because nothing felt more like home than Pete himself.

**Nothing.**

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I actually wrote something.
> 
> Like, finally.


End file.
